


Sweet Like Sugar Venom

by rea_of_sunshine



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 100 Percent Done, Adult Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Comedian Richie Tozier, F/M, M/M, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon/Stanley Uris, Minor Eddie Kaspbrak/Stanley Uris, Minor Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris, Mutual Pining, POV Stanley Uris, Panic Attacks, Risk Analyst Eddie Kaspbrak, Stanley Uris is So Done, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend, Sugar Baby Stanley Uris, Sugar Daddy Eddie Kaspbrak, Sugar Daddy Richie Tozier, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:15:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22703059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rea_of_sunshine/pseuds/rea_of_sunshine
Summary: Being Eddie’s sugar baby was nice. Being Richie’s was fun. Being both? Fucking exhausting.Or, the thrilling tale of one Stanley Uris acting as the human-embodiment of an eye roll as Richie and Eddieclaimto compete for his affections. Of course, Stan recognizes that they’re only competing for each other’s affections, and it takes about two minutes for him to get completely tired of being in the middle of it.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 20
Kudos: 139
Collections: IT ❀ Valentine's Day Fic Exchange





	Sweet Like Sugar Venom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Satanders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satanders/gifts).



> So, this is not at all what I intended to write for this event, but this is what happened. Blame [Mere_Mortifer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mere_Mortifer/pseuds/Mere_Mortifer), who incited, inspired, and beta'd this fic.
> 
> Please don't be scared off by all the relationship tags. This is a Reddie fic, just told a little differently.
> 
> (Also, as a brief warning, Eddie has a germ thing and comes very close to having a panic attack because of it.)

“I swear to God, Bev. I literally want to kill him in his sleep,” Stan said, shifting the phone to his other shoulder and ignoring the raised eyebrows of the barista handing him his fourth coffee of the day. He’d spent the night at Richie’s, and spending the night at Richie’s meant Stanley Uris hadn’t slept at all. 

“Which one is this?” she asked. Stanley heard the hum of the television on the other end of the line. 

“ _Eddie_ , Beverly. Keep up,” Stan said, rolling his eyes and taking Richie’s credit card back from the barista. 

“I thought you liked that one?” Beverly said. Bless her for at least _pretending_ like she gave a damn. 

“I _did_ , and then he found out I’m seeing someone else, and he’s gone completely weird.” 

“Dump him.” 

“Helpful. You know I need the money.” Stan was _so_ close to finishing his PhD, but unfortunately, the college life was generally the can-I-make-this-single-packet-of-ramen-last-one-more-day life. 

“So, take Richie on full-time,” Bev suggested. Stan could practically hear the shrug in her voice, and he hoped she could damn well hear the roll of eyes in his. He settled in at a table near the front of the café to wait for Richie and took a grateful sip of his coffee. God, he was fucking exhausted. Fuck Richie.

“I’d never get any fucking sleep,” Stan bit, and Beverly snorted into the phone.

“Kinky.”

“Shut up. You know it’s not like that. Richie just…” Stan trailed off. Richie was absolutely more than anyone in their right minds could handle, chaotic and messy and _soft_ , and they had developed a weird sort of friendship since Stan started being his sugar baby. It really wasn’t like that. Richie just…

“Richie just wants to have someone to hold. I know. Honestly, Stanley, only you could get into the sugar baby business and find not one but _two_ different men who won’t try to fuck you.” 

“They know what they signed up for,” Stan said, shrugging. He and Richie had been together a while now, nearly three years. He’d been the one to pay for Stan’s tuition at NYU, and in return, Stan had gone over to Richie’s and watched movies and let him rub soft circles into Stan’s calves. The thing with Eddie was newer, a few months at the most, and like he’d told Beverly, he’d really liked Eddie at first. Not necessarily in the same way that he would like someone who wasn’t paying him to be there, but they’d fallen into an easy rhythm. On the nights he wasn’t with Richie, Stan was at Eddie’s, freshly showered, talking for hours about the risks involved with ornithology. 

Stan took a gulp of his coffee and hissed as it scalded down his throat. Then, he did it again because Richie had snored like a freight train against the back of his neck from dusk until dawn. 

“Honestly,” Stan went on, once he wasn’t practically tapping a caffeine drip into his veins. “That’s why the whole thing is so fucking stupid. Eddie’s acting like—” Stan glanced up, trying to think of a puerile enough comparison, when he saw the perfectly-groomed head of Eddie Kaspbrak waltzing through the front door of the café. They locked eyes over the morning rush, Stan looking caught and Eddie looking surprised. “Oh, shit, gotta go,” Stan said to Bev as Eddie started towards him. 

“Talk soon?” she asked in his ear.

“Yeah, I’ll call you later,” he said and hung up. Then, Eddie was standing there in front of him. 

“Hi,” Eddie said, glancing down at the phone Stan had been holding. “Who was that?” he asked, his brow pinching together like it did when he was nervous. Stan knew. 

“You don’t get to ask me that, Eddie,” Stan told him. He tried to find a good mix of firm and gentle. It wasn’t that he minded Eddie knowing he’d been on the phone with Beverly, but he minded Eddie thinking that anything that happened outside of their stringently-bound relationship was any of Eddie’s business. Eddie blanched.

“Right. Sorry.”

“What are you doing here?” Stan asked, glancing around. Richie was supposed to have been there ten minutes ago, but knowing Richie, it would be another ten yet. Of course, there was always the chance that Eddie would be gone by the time Richie showed up… 

Eddie cocked an eyebrow. 

“This is my regular spot,” he said. Stan felt dread bloom in his stomach. He’d heard Eddie talk about his regular spot. It was the only café within four blocks that Eddie felt secure enough to go in and actually sit down at. He went for breakfast every morning, and there Stan was, sitting, waiting for Richie. He’d almost whole-heartedly decided to bail entirely, when the chime above the door rang out again, and Stan knew without even looking over that his luck for the day—not that he had had much to begin with—had run clean out. 

Richie was joining their discussion exactly two seconds later. 

“Hey, Staniel,” he said, appearing at Eddie’s side with an easy smile. It was almost comical how long it took Richie to notice the man he was standing actually directly beside. Eddie looked like he was about to break into a full-blown panic from how close Richie actually _was_ standing. 

Eddie wasn’t good with strangers. Or more specifically, strangers’ germs, of which some irrational part of his brain had convinced him were infinitely more numerous than that of the people he knew. Honestly, in Richie’s case, he was probably right. 

Once Richie finally _did_ notice Eddie, his eyes went a little wide behind his glasses. Stan barely had it in him to fight an eye roll.

“Hi,” Richie breathed, then held his hand out for Eddie to shake. Eddie went taut all over. 

“Richie,” Stan said softly, watching Eddie. Richie’s head swung back towards him, and Stan saw the moment it clicked in Richie’s mind.

“Ooh,” he said, then took a full step away from Eddie. “This must be Eddie.” Eddie broke out of his panic-lock so quickly that it made Stan jump a little. His eyes lasered on Richie in an instant, then flicked back to Stan. Eddie was…a bit slower than Richie on the uptake. It took Richie grinning at him and saying, “Gotta admit, Eds. I felt a little better about you trying to steal my man when I didn’t know you were so cute,” for it to dawn on Eddie’s face. He let out some indignant kind of squeak, then shook himself. 

“Excuse me, but I think it’s the other way around, asshole,” Eddie spat, sounding very genuinely offended. 

Stan sucked down the last of his coffee. He pushed himself out of his chair and stepped around the men. They hardly seemed to notice, steadily bickering as he made his way back to the counter for coffee number five. 

Being Eddie’s sugar baby was nice. Being Richie’s was fun. Being both? Fucking exhausting. 

As he ordered another triple shot from the barista, he dared her to say a single word about the men arguing over him loud enough for the whole café to hear. He even managed to tune them out for a bit, but then, the volume rose, and it became sort of impossible.

“Stan and I have been together for three years!” Richie said. Stan had known him long enough to know that there was no anger in him, just excitement all the fucking time. He sort of lived to rile people up, and Stan was glad to _not_ be the one to endure it for that moment. 

And honestly, Eddie seemed to be enjoying it, too. Or at least, benefiting from it. He wasn’t so crippled by the thought of the germs on and in everything that he couldn’t breathe. He was breathing plenty, yelling at Richie.

“So what, dipshit?! I treat him just as well as you do! Better, probably. At least he actually sleeps when he comes to my house!” 

The barista told Stan his total, and he handed her Eddie’s card, just to be fair. Her eyes slid over to the two idiots at the front, but wisely, she didn’t say anything. He’d do her a favor afterwards and never show his face in the place again, but he was stubborn. He wouldn’t leave before he had sucked down the entirety of his fifth coffee. 

“You think you treat him better. You!” Richie scoffed, and Stanley rolled his eyes, tucked Eddie’s card back into his wallet, and stepped to the side to wait for his drink. 

“What about it?” Eddie challenged loudly. 

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” Richie went silent for a moment, but Stan wasn’t convinced. Richie was never silent for long, and when his voice burst out across the café again, Stan just closed his eyes. “I mean, where’s the _romance_ , man?” 

“Romance! Fuck you and your romance, you dick.” 

“That’s Stanley’s job, baby boy,” Richie said, and Stan grimaced. 

“Not true,” he called, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder. 

“You couldn’t let me have this one, Stanley? I’m hurt,” Richie called back.

“You’ll live,” Stan answered and took his coffee. He went back to them. “You guys done?” he asked, looking between them with an eyebrow raised. 

“God, I love it when you look so disinterested,” Richie said, winking at Stan. Stan leveled him with a _look_. “But no. Eddie Spaghetti just ensured the defense will not rest until you declare the winner. Who babies you better?” 

Both of them were boring down on Stan, and as much as Stan liked to believe he was good in conflict, something twisted in his gut. He had a nice little nest-egg set up, but ideally, he didn't want to lose either one of them financially by declaring a “winner”. 

Plus, he—he shuddered at the thought—cared about both of them. He knew how to talk Eddie down from his panics and paranoias, knew how to draw Richie out from behind the near-constant stream of jokes. They both needed him, and part of his job, part of caring about them, was being there for them when they needed him. 

He tried to keep his gaze unaffected. 

“I guess we’ll just have to see,” he said and only realized that was the _exact_ wrong thing to say when the wolf’s grin broke out across Richie’s face. 

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Richie said. He turned back to Eddie. “An honest man’s duel for the fair maiden’s favor.” He stuck his hand out again. 

"Not a maiden," Stanley interjected, but no one was listening. Eddie was glaring at Richie, determined, and then surprised Stan by slapping his hand into Richie's. 

“You’re fucking on, Richard,” Eddie snarled. He pumped Richie’s hand once, twice, then ripped away and wiped his palm on the seat of his jeans. Stan was proud of him for it. 

“All is fair in love and war?” Richie asked, still grinning, and Stan knew immediately that Eddie was right to look suspicious. 

“I suppose,” Eddie agreed, and before it was even fully off his lips, Richie was nearly ripping Stan’s arm out of the socket and running them both towards the door, cackling maniacally. Scalding coffee splashed up against Stan’s hand, and he hissed but followed along after Richie and his dumb bandit laugh. “God, be careful with him!” Eddie shouted, but it fell on Richie’s deaf ears. Stanley still appreciated the sentiment.

* * *

“What’s up with him?” Richie asked later. Stan had followed him back to his apartment and had curled up against Richie’s side, the way he knew Richie liked. Easy fingers were pushing through Stan’s hair. Richie just liked to be close to people, even though he was presently sitting so close to Stan that he probably couldn’t cross his eyes enough to see him, even with those dumb glasses. Stan rolled his eyes.

“As a rule, I don’t ask that question,” Stan answered. Everyone had their reasons for wanting sugar babies. Sex. Companionship. A socially-crippling inability to maintain relationships that weren’t built on fiscal gain. 

Stan’s relationships had historically fallen into the last two categories. He’d tried the sex thing with Mike while they were in a sugar-relationship and promptly wanted to die every time he thought about how _that_ had blown apart. He’d sort of fallen for Mike, and then, he’d gotten scared of the fact that he loved Mike and had called the whole thing off. 

But Eddie and Richie, they were definitely in the latter categories, and he knew “what was up” without having to ask.

Richie was bad at finding people who didn’t think he was entirely abrasive and had decided to put himself in a position—thanks to his rapidly ascending comedy career—where he wouldn’t be rejected. He wanted companionship. 

Eddie was bad at finding people who didn’t mind him insisting on a shower immediately after they stepped into his apartment. He had childhood trauma, and instead of spending the money from his hefty risk-analyst salary on therapy, he’d opted for Stanley to remind him that he was someone worth knowing. 

In hindsight, he understood why Eddie had sort of crumpled when Stan had mentioned Richie. It struck a pang of guilt through him, thinking of how Stan had bitched about him that morning.

“I gotta go get some fucking sleep,” Stan said after a while, shoving Richie’s shoulder. Richie grinned and tapped the hollow of his own cheek. 

“One here for papa,” he said. Stan rolled his eyes and shoved him harder. 

“I hate you,” Stan said as he slid back into his shoes by the front door. 

“Lock up when you leave,” Richie called from the living room.

“Always do,” Stan answered and turned the lock behind him. 

Eddie was in the kitchen when Stan got to his place. He smiled at Stan over his shoulder, and from what Stan could see, he was wearing an apron around his waist. 

“Hope you’re hungry,” Eddie said. Stan was not. He would eat anyway. 

“Yeah. Let me shower real quick.” Stan was already toeing out of his shoes and lining his coat neatly beside Eddie’s. 

“You don’t have to,” Eddie said. He sounded unsure, but like he was _trying_. Stan raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t mind.” 

The whole apartment smelled amazing, like his mom’s matzo ball soup and Eddie’s 100% natural cleaners. Eddie shook his head.

“It’s fine, just…just wash your hands, please?” Stan watched as Eddie loaded the soup into two bowls, expertly neat and efficient. 

“Sure,” Stan said and moved for the bathroom. 

Once he’d scrubbed down Eddie-style, he made his way back into the dining room. Eddie was sitting at the table dimly lit with candles and sporting what looked to be at least eighty-year-old wine in the center.

“What are you doing?” Stan asked. Eddie glanced up at him, half a smile hiding in his face. 

“What do you mean?” Eddie asked. He waved Stan towards the chair across from him, and Stan went, feeling suspicious all over. 

“I mean, you cooked dinner. You never cook dinner.” 

Eddie shrugged.

“I’m just trying to treat you right,” Eddie said, and as innocent as he sounded, there was a glint in his eye so much like the one he’d seen at the café earlier. Stanley groaned.

“For fuck’s sake, Eddie. This had better not be about stupid Richie.” 

“It’s not!” 

Stan glared at Eddie, and Eddie huffed.

“Fine,” Eddie said. “It is. But I hate the idea of him treating you better than I do!” Stan rolled his eyes. He knew _that_ without needing to ask, too. It fell under childhood trauma. Eddie wanted to be the best. 

“Eddie, do you know what Richie and I did this afternoon?” Stan asked, forcing Eddie to meet his eye. The color drained from Eddie’s face.

“Fuck. Do I want to know?” he asked, so Stan kicked his shin under the table, and Eddie yelped. 

“Cock off,” Stan warned. “We sat on his couch and watched _Lara Croft: Tomb Raider_ for the millionth fucking time.” 

“You hate _Tomb Raider_ ,” Eddie said. His brows tugged together. 

“Yeah, no kidding,” Stan huffed. He really hated that fucking movie. Of course, it would be one of Richie’s favorites. He sighed. “This whole thing is stupid. You’re not in a competition with Richie.” 

That glint danced through Eddie’s eyes again, and Stan barely bit back a groan.

“What I’m hearing, though, is that I’m winning,” Eddie said. 

Stan wanted to bash his head against the wall. 

“Jesus, fuck,” he breathed, then downed the glass of wine Eddie had poured for him. It really was expensive wine, lit him up inside. “Fine, Eddie. Yes. You’re winning. Happy?” 

Eddie smiled a little, so Stan knew he was. 

“Eat your soup,” Eddie said, so Stan ate his soup. It was good soup, too. 

After dinner, Stan showered and crawled into the bed beside Eddie. Eddie wasn’t exactly a cuddler like Richie, but Stan knew he liked having someone there, someone he could reach out and brush a palm against in the warm of the night. Stan didn’t mind at all, as long as there wasn’t a goddamn chainsaw sharing the bed with him. He was asleep in seconds flat. 

The next morning, Eddie drove him to campus, and Stan spent the day not giving his boyfriends even a single thought. He was good at that. Compartmentalizing, Bev called it. 

Whatever. It meant that he could sit in his office and do his research on the yellow-crested cockatoo without fixating on the two idiot cocks who had started in some competition neither could really win. 

Honestly, he kind of hoped they’d forgotten about it. Eddie hadn’t mentioned it since dinner, and Richie hadn’t mentioned it since before that. Of course, Stanley’s life being the absolute shit-show that it was, that wasn’t to last. 

He’d _just_ gotten dipped back down in his dissertation when there was a knock on his door. He glanced up, but all he saw was a massive bouquet of lilies clutched in the hands of some poor delivery guy.

“Uh, you Stanley Uris?” he asked, and Stan nodded. The delivery guy set the flowers down on the edge of Stan’s desk and passed him a clipboard. “Sign please. I’ll go get the rest.”

Stan was halfway through his signature when the guy’s words registered. 

“The rest?” he asked, horrified. Then, the guy was back with another bouquet. Then another. Then another. Then another, until nine massive fucking bouquets of lilies and snapdragons and amaryllis and roses and chrysanthemums were flowing over Stan’s desk and bookshelves and lining the floors near the door. 

“Your honey miss an anniversary or something?” the guy asked as he set the last one down. 

“I fucking wish,” Stan said. His grip on his pencil was deadly. It could snap at any moment, and frankly, Stan knew the feeling. The guy snorted and left. Stan didn’t have to look at the card to know that Richie was responsible. So much for Richie having forgotten. He was jamming Richie’s number into his office phone before he knew it. 

Richie answered on the second ring.

“Hey, Stanny-pooh,” he said, chipper, the little shit.

“What the fuck, Richie?” Stan hissed. “ _Nine_ fucking bouquets? Really?!” 

“What?” Richie asked, pulling off a very convincing I-have-no-idea-what-the-fuck-you’re-talking-about voice. 

“The _flowers_ , Richard. Did you have to send nine bouquets? It’s sweet and all, but this is definitely a fire hazard.” Every discernible exit was blocked by foliage. He’d burn to death. 

(Stan briefly considered the reprieve of the possibility.) 

Richie was silent for a full minute, and Stan—after shoving aside the thought of a preferable end to the “competition” he’d somehow gotten swept up in—swung rapidly between wondering if Richie had hung up on him and wondering if it really _wasn’t_ Richie who had sent the flowers. There was a card poking out of one of the bouquets, and Stan was terrified to look at it. 

But he pulled it out and held his breath, anyway. 

_I know you said it wasn’t a competition, but to make sure I’m still in first…—Eddie_

Stan dropped the card and let his forehead fall onto the desk. 

“I mean, I was mostly kidding,” Richie said after a moment, “But if the little shit wants to play dirty, we can play dirty.” 

“Fuck. No. I'm sorry. I really thought they were from you.” But Stan knew Richie wasn’t listening. 

“He’ll never know what hit him,” he was saying, almost absently. 

“Richie, please,” Stan begged. 

“No way. This is war, and all is fair in love and war,” Richie said and promptly left the dial tone ringing in Stan’s ear. 

“Fuck,” Stan said again and thumped his head down on the desk.

* * *

Stan spent the day in a state of terror. What else was he supposed to do, now knowing Richie was _playing dirty_ ? He tried to mentally prepare himself for the absolute worst that Richie Tozier could do, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even fathom the depths of Richie’s fucking mind. He was, frankly, afraid to. 

And when Richie texted him after his office hours ended and said he was outside, Stan knew he was right to be afraid. 

“What,” Stanley said, his work bag falling off his shoulder and thudding flat against the concrete. “The fuck is this?” 

Richie’s grin went from one side of his face to the other, and he waved an arm towards the car. Car was…a generous term. In fact, it was a massive fucking limousine stretching down the entire block and pissing off every New Yorker in the already-clogged five o’clock traffic. 

“Get in!” Richie said. He was practically bouncing. 

“No.”

“Stannn,” Richie whined and poked his bottom lip out. 

Stan took a deep, theoretically-calming breath. 

“I hate you,” he said, but he picked up his bag and crawled into the limo, Richie giggling his way in behind him. 

“Pip pip and tally ho, my good fellow!” Richie called to the driver, and as they started down the block with angry drivers swerving around them, Richie pulled out his phone and turned it on himself and Stan. 

“What are you doing?” Stan asked, eyeing the camera suspiciously, doubly so when he saw a million hearts and emojis flying up over the screen. 

“Yo,” Richie said, flinging an arm around Stan’s shoulders. “Instagram, what’s up!” 

Stan groaned and glared out of the window. 

“I’m out in New York. Anyone else in New York?” A flood of messages scrolled up Richie’s screen, and he grinned. Stanley tried to remember why he liked Richie. Tried to remember _if_ he liked Richie. 

Richie went on.

“Whoa, I’m so sorry for all of you. Listen, you New Yorkers, I’ve got a message for one specific New Yorker, and I need your help getting it to him. Eddie—” Richie paused and turned to Stan. Stan was glaring resolutely out at the traffic, refusing to engage at all with Richie goddamn Tozier. “Stan, what’s his last name?” 

“I’m not telling you and literally the whole of your fanbase that, Richard,” Stan bit.

“Stan!” 

“No!”

“Fine, fuck, you’re absolutely no fun at all. Listen, Eddie Spaghetti, you know who you are. If the hordes of the internet manage to find you, and you’re seeing this, I’m fucking coming for you, man.” 

“Richie, honestly.”

“Hush, Stan! Hey, excuse me, can you roll the thing down?” 

Before Stan could even protest, their driver was opening the sunroof, and Richie was heaving to his feet and poking his top half out like a goddamn gopher. Stan could barely hear him over the whipping wind, and still, he wished it were louder so that he _wouldn’t_ hear. 

“Eddie Spaghetti, baby boy. I see your nine flower bouquets and raise you a limousine through downtown Manhattan to a _romantic_ ,” Richie rolled the fucking R. Stanley hated him. “Dinner cruise along the bay. Yeah. Full _Pretty Woman_. Your move, dickwad.” 

Richie clicked the video off and collapsed back into the seat beside Stanley looking smug as shit. 

Dinner was nice, though. It wouldn’t pay his bills, but it was nice. 

By the time they made it off the boat, back to cell service, and back to the—Stan cringed—limousine, messages started pinging like crazy on Stan’s phone. 

Three were from Beverly, in quick succession. 

> **Bev Marsh:** HOly shit, Stan!! I just saw the livestream and what the actual fuck???
> 
> **Bev Marsh:** I 100% take back what I said about you being dramatic over the whole “fight to the death” thing..
> 
> **Bev Marsh:** Hope he doesn’t think this’ll get him lucky. 

Stan rolled his eyes and left her on read. She deserved it. 

The other six messages were from Eddie. 

Stan steeled himself and slid into the limo without acknowledging Richie’s dramatic bow. Richie huffed and thudded into the seat beside him, close enough that he could read over Stan’s shoulder as he opened the messages from Eddie. 

The first was from when he'd still been at the university.

> **Eddie Kaspbrak:** Did you like the flowers? ;) 

Stan rolled his eyes at the emoji and scrolled to the next one, the time-stamp marking it as a mere hour after Richie’s livestream. 

> **Eddie Kaspbrak:** WHAT A FUCKING COCK!! 
> 
> **Eddie Kaspbrak:** A livestream?? What a FUCKING cock. If you're still with him, tell him I’ll get him back for this.
> 
> **Eddie Kaspbrak:** Honestly, and a limo?? Be a little more original, Tozier.

Richie, still reading over Stan’s shoulder, started giggling. He reached out and plucked the phone from Stan’s hands before Stan could finish reading the onslaught of messages. 

“Uh, excuse me,” Stan snapped, but Richie wasn’t listening. He was too busy typing away on Stan’s phone, grinning like he’d just won the fucking lottery. Stan, even though he knew he realistically _should_ be concerned by what Richie was saying to Eddie, just watched him for a minute. He’d never seen Richie smile quite like that. 

A second later, Stan’s phone was ringing in Richie’s hand, and Richie swiped to connect. Eddie’s face was glaring at him through the dimly-lit limo interior. 

“I should have known that was you, Richie,” Eddie snapped, frowning so hard that Stan worried he'd pull a muscle or something. 

“Ever the pleasure, Spaghetti,” Richie drawled. He was practically vibrating in the seat beside Stan. 

“That’s not my fucking name, shit-for-brains,” Eddie said, but Richie just laughed, threw his head back, and laughed. Stan just watched, knowing, again, that he should probably intercept the conversation but being entirely too caught up in the version of Richie that emerged when Eddie was bitching at him. He couldn’t quite figure it out. 

“And you want to criticize _my_ originality?” Richie taunted. Eddie turned three different shades of red in two seconds. 

“You think a limo and a dinner cruise is fucking original?” Eddie shouted. Stan gave their limo driver an apologetic look in the rear-view, though he seemed pretty weathered to idiots yelling in his backseat. 

“I think it’s a lot more original than flowers,” Richie quipped, his grin practically monopolizing the small square of his face. 

“Oh, fuck you! Flowers are _classic!_ ”

“Flowers are fucking _boring!_ I’ll bet you cooked him dinner, too, didn’t you? Maybe a little spaghetti from Spaghetti? Italian or chicken?”

“Actually, it was soup,” Stan said, because he could, and because he was still perplexed by Richie’s laser-gaze on Eddie’s face. Richie turned and gave Stan a look that said he was stunned to still find Stan sitting beside him. 

Stan cocked an eyebrow up. 

“Stan!” Eddie hissed, an exaggerated betrayal filling his voice. 

“It was!” Stan protested, even as Richie laughed. He hadn't turn the camera towards Stan, so Stan knew he was nothing more than a disembodied voice in Eddie’s ear. 

“Whatever,” Eddie huffed. “I’m going to win this, Richie. I hope you know that. I won’t need a goddamn livestream for you to know when I do, either,” Eddie said, and Stan groaned. 

“God, please don’t tell me you’re going to make this public and embarrassing.” 

“He’s the one who made it public and embarrassing!” Eddie said, voice shrill. “He called me out to his followers! I had like twenty-five DM’s from complete strangers saying Richie Tozier was coming for me. Do you know how disturbing that mental image is? Richie Tozier, coming, for me?” 

Richie cackled so loud that it seemed to shake the car. Stan glared at him, and Eddie doubled it.

“Oh, real fucking mature,” Eddie said, but Stan saw the tremble, hard press of Eddie’s lips, the one that said he really wanted to smile. 

“I’m sorry!” Richie cried, still laughing. “You’re the one who said it, not me!”

“Yeah, well you’re the one who laughed at it!”

“It was a cum joke, how the fuck am I not supposed to laugh at that?!” 

“By being a mature fucking adult, that’s how!”

“Have you _met_ me? That’s like, the complete antithesis of my whole brand, dude.”

“And yet, you use the word _antithesis_ , like a prick.”

“I can be funny _and_ smart, Spagheds. And just to prove it, I didn’t even giggle when you said ‘prick’.”

Stan rolled his eyes.

“You’ve been giggling since the minute you started texting Eddie,” Stan put in. It was honestly getting fucking ridiculous. He wanted his phone back, and he wanted to eat the entirety of the ice cream in Richie’s freezer, and then he wanted to sleep this whole promise of _public and embarrassing_ off him. 

“God, it’s so hot when you put me on blast in front of your equally hot boyfriend, Stanley,” Richie said, cutting him a gnarly mix of a grin and glare. Stan rolled his eyes and snatched the phone out of his hand. 

“Seems like blasting people is your kink,” Eddie said. Stan, horrified, stared down at Eddie's smug little face, so proud of his comeback. He hung up on Eddie out of pure pity, and Richie’s howl of laughter tore through the car a millisecond after the call ended. 

“Oh my God,” Richie wheezed. “What the fuck? I can’t believe he just said that.” 

Stan tucked his phone away and glared out of the window, wondering how he could hate two people so much and still be so ridiculously fond of both of them.

* * *

Stan had come into the habit of holding his breath whenever he spent time with either of them. 

The first time he saw Eddie after the FaceTime debacle, Stan had spent the whole night looking over his shoulder. 

“Relax,” Eddie had laughed. He’d looked a lot looser than he _ever_ had in the time Stanley had known him. Stan had watched him with the same fascination that he’d watched Richie. Eddie went on, “I said that he wouldn’t need a livestream to know, and he won’t.” 

Stan hated that promise. He hated it doubly so, triply so, infinitely so, when, the next time he saw Richie—coffee in Washington Square, even though it was January and even though it was fucking freezing—music began pouring from every orifice. 

Music in the park on Sundays wasn’t uncommon—there was a pianist by the east entrance Stan was particularly fond of—but this was no piano melody drifting on the icy wind. This was _loud_ and popish, and all at once, the dozen or so people milling around the edges of the bone-dry fountain—fuck, why hadn’t Stanley noticed they were all uniformly dressed??—locked into formation. 

The glare Stan gave Richie was so prominent it was incredible he didn’t immediately burst into flames. Instead, he just gave Stan an equally shocked look and shrugged. 

Stan endured an agonizing three minutes of popping and locking and gathering crowds with smart phones following back and forth between the dancers and Stan’s mortified face while the dancers pointed and motioned to him again and again. Richie watched the whole thing with a childlike wonder, and Stan was a breath away from walking away from the whole thing—Richie’s enraptured face be damned—when said enraptured face let out a breathy and awed laugh. Stan glanced over at him but found his eyes trained straight into the center of the flash-mob. 

Stan followed his eyes, and there, rising slowly from the middle of the fountain, was Eddie fucking Kaspbrak. Doing jazz hands. 

Stan's mouth fell open.

The rest of the dance troupe was swirling around Eddie, and then all hands were on him, lifitng him out of the fountain and depositing him onto the concrete. Eddie fell into perfect step with the dancers, plie-ing and twerking and Stan didn’t know—fucking roboting?—along with the best of them, if a little off-count, until the music ended with a flourish, and Eddie dramatically fell to his knees, chest heaving and grinning. 

“Told you you wouldn’t need a livestream,” Eddie huffed after a moment, still grinning, still posed in his final position. His eyes were trained solely on Richie, and Richie rocked in his seat and clapped, positively gleeful.

“Dude, what the fuck? That was awesome. You didn’t need a livestream, but you sure as shit got like fifteen!” Richie crowed, and he was right. Stan was so fucking embarrassed by all the people still oogling, wondering if Eddie was about to pull a goddamn engagement ring out of a pocket somewhere. Stan knew that’s what it looked like, especially with the way his two idiot boyfriends were staring at each other. 

It was in that moment, Eddie crouched down, the ghost of a million stranger hands on him, humor high in Richie’s face, that Stan _got it_. 

He wanted to kick himself. He was as slow on the uptake as Eddie had been. 

Neither of these idiots gave a fuck about getting _Stan’s_ attention. They only wanted each other’s. 

“Oh my God,” Stan groaned, falling back into his seat and bringing a hand to his icy forehead. “This is such absolute bullshit.”

“What are you talking about?” Richie asked cheerfully, barely cutting him a glance. “Eds was slick busting a move out there! This is absolute gold. Thank _God_ for the immortal life of the internet! I want to watch that every day of my life.”

Eddie turned a deep red and only then seemed to notice the—thankfully dwindling—crowd of onlookers. He stood immediately and brushed dirt and ice off the knees of his pants. 

Richie went on, talking wildly with his hands.

“You came up of the fountain like, like fuck, I don’t know! Fucking Samara or something!” Eddie’s mouth ticked into an almost-smile. Stan knew Eddie liked horror movies. 

“You’re both complete morons,” Stan said and ripped his coffee off the bench. 

He left the morons there, and they didn’t follow after him. Instead, Stan caught the subway to Beverly and Ben’s apartment in SoHo. 

“Remember how I said it was Eddie that I wanted to kill?” Stan said as soon as Bev opened the door. She raised an eyebrow and stepped aside. Stan slid past her and fell onto the couch beside Ben. 

“Hi, Stan,” Ben said.

“Ben,” Stan said by way of greeting.

“What’s going on?” Bev asked, materializing in the room with a cup of tea. Stan took it from her gratefully. 

“I want to kill _both_ of them now.”

“This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with the flash-mob that started in Washington Square would it?” she asked, hesitant like she already knew. Stan groaned and knocked his head back against the couch. It gave freely under him, and he fucking hated it for that. 

“They’re making my life miserable. I’m scared to leave the house, Bev, like a fucking sing-o-gram or whatever will assault me on the street corner. And to make it _worse_ , I just realized they’re flirting!”

“With you?” Ben asked, his brows pulling together.

“With _each other!_ ” Stan groaned and sucked gratefully at his tea. It made his nose run, and he swiped at it angrily. He’d fucking bill Richie and Eddie _both_ if he got a cold from their stunt. It wasn’t even an Eddie-stunt anymore; it was a _them_ -stunt. 

“Did you finally decide you have actual feelings for the men you’ve been dating, Stanley?” Bev asked, smirking at him. 

“God, no. They’re both actually the worst.”

“Dump them,” Bev said, her go-to advice, and he glared at her, his go-to response.

“They’re my friends.”

“Who pay you to sleep with them,” Ben said. It wasn’t judging, but Stan elbowed him anyway.

“I don’t _sleep_ with them. I’m not a fucking prostitute.”

“Hey, they work hard,” Bev protested, but Stan waved her off. He knew. He was, technically speaking, a sex worker, too. He was just fired up.

“I just sleep with them, you know? Like, asleep.” 

Ben raised an eyebrow, and Stan huffed.

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. It’s annoying, is what it is. If they want to flirt, whatever. Just don’t humiliate _me_ in the process!” Stan heaved in and out a few times, and when he was finally calm enough to look at Bev, there was a mischievous glint in her eye. 

“Oh, I don’t like that look,” Ben said, leaning away from his girlfriend. Stan knew the feeling. 

“So, take yourself out of the equation,” she said slowly, grinning like a fox.

“Jesus Christ, Bev, I’m not dumping them!” 

“I’m not saying _dump them,_ Stanley. I’m saying _set them up_.”

Stan blinked at her. 

“What?” he asked, because the thought was rattling around in his head like a pinball, and he needed to be sure he’d heard her right and if he had, that she had a _plan_. He needed a plan. 

“Set them up,” she said again, leaning forward on her knees to level her gaze on Stan. “It’s almost Valentine’s Day, right?” 

“Yeah…” Stan said, equal parts hesitant, suspicious, and enthralled.

“What better time to make a grand gesture?” Bev asked, shrugging. She was trouble, all over. Stan fucking loved it. “You still have their credit cards?” 

“Ben,” Stan said slowly, still staring in awe at Beverly. “You’re dating an evil mastermind. I need you to know that.”

“I know,” Ben answered, sounding as awed as only someone truly worthy of Bev could.

* * *

Bev and Stan—and Ben, though he swears he was an unwilling participant—set the plan into motion, thanks to two credit cards from two idiots in mutual pining. 

After Stan’s phone pinged with a confirmation email, he went to his own apartment for possibly the first time in weeks. 

His house plants were dead, and Stan left their corpses on the street with a resigned sigh. 

He expected a flood of texts from Richie and/or Eddie, but his phone stayed blessedly silent, and Stanley liked to imagine, as he filled his bathtub to the brim with hot, impeccable water, that they were somewhere together, bickering far out of Stanley’s earshot, annoying the piss out of each other instead of him. 

It was a nice thought to sink into, and he reveled in the image, the silence, the solitude of his bath away from the idiots. He thought, when Eddie and Richie finally pulled their heads out of their asses and got together, maybe it would be nice to be single for a while. He could find a new job. Maybe he would even call Mike up…

The thought gave Stan a trill of something sharp down his spine. Pain? Regret? The unadulterated need for the next two weeks to breeze them straight into the day _after_ Valentine’s Day, when he could look at Eddie and Richie and be just their friends? Stan knew that was the one. 

He could last the next two weeks without killing them, right? 

For the most part, he was right. There was a week of calm evenings with each of them, separate, not bickering, not enacting fucking flash-mobs. Just movies-in and late-night talks. Those were the moments he loved Eddie and Richie. When it was Eddie. And when it was Richie. Not when it was a _them_ situation. 

And Stanley got almost a full week of those moments. 

Then, at the start of what Stan had thought and so desperately had _hoped_ would be another quiet evening with Richie, Richie innocently said he wanted to take a walk through Central Park. 

It was still fucking freezing, but it seemed like a calm enough event for Stan to bundle up and agree. 

Big fucking mistake. 

Stan could hear the music pulsing even before they stepped through the gate. Stan pulled up, full-stop.

“This had better not be another flash-mob, I swear to God, Richie. I will leave you. I will fucking leave you,” Stan warned. He fucking meant it, too. 

Richie just grinned.

“God, what is it with you and Eddie thinking I’m so unoriginal? I’d never recycle the same material!” 

“Richie, I literally heard you tell the same joke about a porcupine to four different people just today,” Stan bit. 

“It was funny! The porcupine said—”

“I know what the porcupine said! I heard the joke four times today!” 

Richie huffed and tugged Stan along the path. Stan groaned, but he followed. What else was he supposed to do? 

They trudged through the park for a while, before it occurred to Stanley that Eddie always ran in the park in the evenings that Stan wasn’t with him, and upon that realization, Stan promptly wanted to bash his own head in and possibly Richie’s, too. 

Of course. Of _fucking_ course, Stanley was once again in the middle of their dumb mating ritual. 

“I hate you,” Stan told Richie, just in case he’d forgotten since the last time he’d mentioned it two minutes earlier. 

“You’ll be changing your _tune_ soon.” Richie raised his eyebrows, seeking a laugh. 

“What are you doing?” Stan asked, glaring at him.

“I’m punning…You’ll get it in a minute,” Richie said, waving the thought away and trudging deeper in to the park. 

Eventually, they broke through the trees, into the pulsing sound and thrumming people. Up ahead, Stan saw a massive, temporary stage with swinging lights and heads bowed over electric guitars. Stan hated rock music, and he hated Richie, in case anyone had forgotten, as he tugged Stan through the crowd sixty-deep, every one of them cutting nasty glares and stank-eyes, even though this was _literally_ Richie's concert. About halfway through the crowd, Richie paused and raised his hand, trying to get the attention of someone Stan was too short to see through the throngs of people. 

Even Richie’s shout got swallowed up by the noise of the band, and Stan only thought it fair since the whole thing was his fault anyway.

Richie elbowed through faster, in a way that could only mean he’d spotted Eddie and wanted to flirt/gloat. 

Stan knew he could easily slip out of Richie’s grip, disappear into the night, and never return, but it _was_ warmer in the mosh-pit, Stan would give him that. He shoved through the crowd behind Richie until they were right at the front. The song came to an end, the audience roared, and Richie found the person he was waving at through the crowd. 

In the still-swinging lights of the stage, Stan almost didn’t recognize him. 

And then, all at once, he did. 

Mike Hanlon, the first man Stan had ever loved, was standing on the edge of Richie’s slap-stick concert, wearing a neon vest over his coat that read, **NYPD**. He was staring over Richie’s shoulder, directly at Stan. 

Stan turned and bolted. 

Or, he fucking tried to. But apparently, the crowd that had let him in so begrudgingly was even more loathe to let him out. He slammed into a bear of a man with a long, gross beard and recoiled backward, trapped in the thin stretch of grass between the edge of the stage, the line of the crowd, Richie, and Mike. 

“Stan?” Mike asked in the ringing quiet between songs, his voice hesitant and sounding like lilacs and fleece and enough to make a lump catch in Stan’s throat. 

“You guys know each other?” Richie asked. 

“Yeah,” Mike said, at the same time that Stan bit out a sharp, “No.”

Richie raised an eyebrow. 

“Bad blood?” he asked. Stan had never wanted to punch him so hard in his life. 

Mike was staring at Stan, working his jaw. 

“No,” Stan said. He tried to hold Mike’s eye. He really did. 

“O-kay,” Richie hummed, his brow still furrowed. The kick-drum started up, and Richie rushed to say whatever it was he needed to say to Mike. Stan let the music swallow up his voice, then Richie was back at his side, grinning. 

“I don’t know why you do this, Richie,” Stan said. Richie seemed to sense the way Stan felt too tired to stand and frowned. 

“For you,” Richie said, and Stan shook his head. It wasn't for Stan, but he was too tired to argue. 

After a few more songs, Richie left his side—not that Stan really noticed, everything was too loud, too much—and reappeared four feet taller directly in front of him, center stage. 

Stan groaned. Eddie wasn’t even _there_. Why did Richie feel the need to do this fucking show when Eddie wasn’t there? Then, out of the corner of his eye, Stan realized that he was. Eddie was standing there in his running clothes by the stairs at the front of the stage, frowning up at Richie, earphones hanging limply around his neck, and Stan tried to remember that he had exactly eight days until he was done with this whole thing. 

He tried not to hear whatever disgusting thing Richie was saying. Stan thought he was thanking the band, the crowd, the snow for slacking enough for him to further prove himself the superior boyfriend. Then, a new voice was low in Stan’s ear, and it was all he could hear.

“Can we talk?” Mike asked, settling a warm hand against the inside of Stan’s wrist. 

The lights fell soft over his skin, violet and vermillion and viridian. Stan loved him. 

“Yeah,” Stan breathed. He followed Mike out of the crowd, steadily ignoring every word Richie was saying. 

“So,” Mike said, after he’d pulled Stan to a quieter and colder edge of the clearing. 

“So,” Stan answered, though he wasn’t sure how. Everything in him was turning around and around in knots. When he’d thought about rekindling things with Mike, he always thought he’d have some time to figure out exactly how to beg for forgiveness. 

Mike was staring at him, looking sad and soft and like there was so much he wanted to say, and Stan wanted to hear every word of it. But then, Mike wasn’t talking, and he wasn’t looking at Stan anymore. Instead, his eyes were laser-focused on the stage behind Stan. 

Eddie’s voice rang out, louder than it should have been.

“I’mma let you finish, Rich,” Eddie said, and Stan went stock still. 

Eight. More. Days. 

He chanted the words to himself again and again as Mike reached out and touched Stan’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll be right back, okay?” he said, and then he was running towards the stage. 

_Eight more days, eight more days,_ and then Stan was running after him, weighed down by his coat and his hat and his dumb fucking heart.

* * *

Stan hadn’t been fast enough, and Richie had been laughing too hard, and now, they were sitting on the god-awful benches in the waiting room of the NYPD’s 19th precinct while Eddie’s release was being processed. 

It was one in the fucking morning, and Stan was exhausted, and he knew he wouldn’t sleep at Richie’s. 

But at some point, Mike had shed his coat and stood before him, now, in his tight-fit uniform, so, overall, not a bad night. 

“I’m really sorry,” Mike said, glancing back and forth between Richie and Stan. “He should be out soon. I didn’t realize he was your…”

“Boyfriend,” Richie supplied cheerily. Mike’s eyes flicked across to Richie. 

“Right. Your boyfriend,” Mike said. He sounded relieved. 

“Oh, no, not mine. His,” Richie said, nodding towards Stan, because he was a bastard that way, and Stan thought, even though Richie's job literally relied on it, that he might be the worst person in the world at reading a room. “I’m his boyfriend, too,” Richie added, as though neither Mike nor Stan looked horrified enough.

“Christ, Richie, do you ever shut your fucking mouth?” Stan hissed. It probably came out just a _smidgen_ too harsh, seeing as Richie’s smile flickered and faded away. 

“Sorry,” Richie murmured. 

Stan scrubbed his hands down his face, fighting the urge to straight-up scream into them, and when he pulled them away, Richie was chewing his lip and staring out into the bullpen, and Mike was frowning down at Stan, and the guilt was festering. 

Stan had just opened his mouth to apologize when the door to the waiting room opened, and Eddie was led in and passed to Mike, looking for all the world like he was about to cry. Even from the hard plastic of his chair, Stan could see the short, hard bursts of air shoveling through him. 

_Oh, fuck,_ Stan thought. That was a panic look, a real one. 

Stan was on his feet in an instant, but Richie was faster, planting himself directly in front of Eddie and wrapping a hand around his shoulder. 

“Eds?” Richie asked, his voice thick with concern. “What’s going on? Did they hurt you?” 

Eddie shook his head violently and sucked in a breath. 

“Dirty,” he gasped, then jerked in a breath, and another. 

“Hey, okay,” Richie crooned gently. He brought a hand up and pushed it over Eddie’s hair, down his cheek. “It’s okay. You’re right. Police precincts are totally gross. I bet they never fucking clean this place.” 

“Richie,” Stan hissed, torn between glancing at Mike to make sure he wasn’t offended and shoving Richie out of the way because he _obviously_ didn’t know what he was doing. 

“There was,” Eddie gasped, never once looking away from Richie. Richie’s hand smoothed down his face again. “Piss in the grout.” 

“Piss in the grout.” Richie clicked his tongue. “How do you even clean grout? My mom used to use a toothbrush.”

“They make special brushes,” Eddie huffed.

“She uses vinegar and baking powder, too.” 

“Soda,” Eddie said. Stan watched a corner of his mouth quirk into a smile. His breath was still coming hard and fast, but he was smiling. His hands gripped Richie’s elbows, knuckles white. 

“Soda and baking powder?” Richie asked. His hand stilled on Eddie’s face, cupped his cheek. 

Stan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 

He’d thought that setting Richie and Eddie up was purely for the sake of getting them off his back, purely selfish. 

He didn’t think that anymore, not with the way Eddie was coming down, the way Richie was coming out. Stan could see with crystal clarity that they were _good_ for each other. 

“Baking soda and vinegar, numb-nuts,” Eddie croaked and rolled his eyes. “The powder is for cooking.”

“They’re both powders. This is confusing,” Richie answered, shaking his head. 

Eddie laughed, short and breathy, but _there_. Richie straightened up, smiling down at Eddie, still holding him.

“You need some fresh air?” he asked, and Eddie nodded. Richie finally took his hand off Eddie’s face but kept one anchored on his shoulder. They started towards the door, and at the last second, Richie turned back to Stan like an afterthought. 

Stan didn’t mind. He really didn’t. 

“Will you be okay here for a bit?” he asked Stan. Stan waved him off, and the pair disappeared out into the cold New York February. 

“I thought he said Eddie wasn’t his boyfriend,” Mike said after a beat of silence. 

Stan snorted and turned to him. 

“Yeah. I’m working on it,” he said, offering a smile up to Mike. Mike rubbed the back of his neck.

“So, then you guys’ll be like a throuple?” Mike asked, barely meeting Stan’s eyes. 

“Then, I’ll be single,” Stan answered. 

When Mike’s eyes flicked up to Stan’s, he was ready for them. Stan had been with Richie so long that he’d forgotten what it had felt like to really love someone. Stan loved Richie, yeah, but he was in love with Mike, even now, and Mike’s eyes were wide and hopeful. 

Then, they were clenching shut, and he was groaning. 

“Fuck, Stan, I’m…I’m seeing somebody,” he said. 

The words crashed into Stan like blows. 

“Oh,” Stan said. He tried not to sound too much like he was about to cry. He’d lost Mike once. He could do it again. He’d fucking hate himself forever, but he could do it. 

“But,” Mike started. Stan watched him shift his weight, tried not to cry. “Maybe you could meet him?” 

Stan’s eyes flicked up.

“What?” he asked. His heart slammed painfully—Mike’s eyes were soft—with something like hope. 

“You could meet Bill. If you liked him, I mean…” Mike trailed off and groaned. “Never mind. God, I’m sorry. I just…I miss you, Stan. Every day.” 

Stan’s chest kicked again. 

“I’m not opposed to a throuple,” he said carefully. 

Mike went silent, considering him again with those eyes. God, Stan was a goner. 

“Yeah?” Mike asked. “I mean, Bill and I, we’ve talked about a third and all, but I don’t want to put you in a weird position and make you feel—”

“God, I forgot how much you talk when you’re nervous,” Stan interrupted, smiling a little. Mike huffed.

“I’m sorry! I’m nervous!”

“I just acknowledged that, Mikey,” Stan said softly, the old nickname drawing up from somewhere within him he’d long since sworn never to open. It made him feel like he was nineteen again, and Mike seemed to preen beneath it. “I’d like to meet him,” Stan said, just to clarify.

“When?” 

“What time do you get off?” Stan asked. He felt sure his eyes were very dark, very wide. Mike’s seemed to flicker like muscle memory.

“Twenty minutes,” he said. 

“I’ll wait.” 

Mike’s throat clicked as he swallowed. He nodded and hovered awkwardly for a moment before disappearing through the doors the other officer had brought Eddie out of. 

Stan watched him go with a smile, a swooping feeling in his chest, and sat down to text Richie and let him know he wouldn’t be over later. 

When he pulled his phone out, he saw that he already had a message from Richie. 

> **Large Idiot:** decided to walk Eddie home.. u know where the key is if u don’t want to wait xx sorry!

Stan huffed a laugh and typed out a response. 

> **Stanley Uris:** No worries. I’ll see if Mike can take me back to my place. Be good to Eddie.

Stan _extra_ meant that last bit. Though, seeing the way Richie acted with him tonight, it probably was an unnecessary addition. 

Richie didn’t dignify him with more than a thumbs-up emoji, so Stan settled in with his heart racing to wait for the end of Mike’s shift. 

Bill, as it turned out, was sweet and funny and had an endearing stutter and a tongue that absolutely made Stanley’s toes curl. 

All in all, he was excited about their prospects as a throuple, and as he settled into bed pressed between Bill and Mike, neither one of them snoring and both of them holding him, Stan considered the absolutely ridiculous reality that, now, he had not one, but four boyfriends.

* * *

Days passed until Stan saw Eddie and Richie again, and while that meant Stan had an abundance of time to devote to his studies and to his new/rekindled relationships, it also meant that Stan had to confront the possibility that the dinguses had figured it out on their own and that they would find a hefty but ultimately pointless charge on their next credit card statements. 

The night before Valentine's Day, Stan sat at his own apartment curled up with Bill, when his phone pinged with a group message from Richie. The group consisted of Stan, Richie, and Eddie, and it did not pass unnoticed to Stan that Eddie’s inclusion in the group meant he and Richie had exchanged numbers at some point. 

He smiled down at the message.

> **Large Idiot:** what do u boys say we put an end to this bet once n for all?

A text from Eddie bounced in under Richie’s.

> **Tiny Idiot:** Bet?
> 
> **Large Idiot:** for the fair maiden’s heart spaghedward keep up

Stan huffed and started typing.

> **Stanley Uris:** I’m still not a maiden.
> 
>  **Tiny Idiot:** Bet implies stakes, you fool. 
> 
> **Large Idiot:** i am offended in stan’s honor
> 
>  **Tiny Idiot:** Shut up >:( You know what I mean. 
> 
> **Large Idiot:** omg eds…how’d u get a tiny picture of u in there??
> 
>  **Tiny Idiot:** Shut the fuck up I literally ahte you.
> 
>  **Large Idiot:** ahte? is that australian? g’day m(ahte)?
> 
>  **Stanley Uris:** God, I can’t believe this group chat has existed for exactly three minutes and I already want out of it.
> 
>  **Stanley Uris:** Both of you meet me in the park tomorrow at noon so I can dump you.
> 
>  **Large Idiot:** not before a winner is declared m(ahte)
> 
>  **Tiny Idiot:** I literally cannot stand you.
> 
>  **Large Idiot:** not what ur mom said
> 
>  **Tiny Idiot:** How old even are you??? A yo-mama joke??
> 
>  **Stanley Uris:** Did you mean 96% of his joke rolodex? 
> 
> **Tiny Idiot:** Ha, I get it. Cause he’s old.
> 
>  **Large Idiot:** Wwow fuckin rude.
> 
> _**Large Idiot** named the conversation “Gang Up On Richie??”._
> 
> **Tiny Idiot:** So you DO know where the shift key is. Good to know.
> 
>  **Large Idiot:** lItErAlLy EaT mY wHoLe DiCk KaSpBrAk
> 
>  **Tiny Idiot:** mockingspongebobmeme.jpg
> 
>  **Stanley Uris:** Why didn’t you just send the picture?
> 
>  **Large Idiot:** no don’t stifle him his memeial frequency is rising
> 
>  **Tiny Idiot:** What the fuck
> 
>  **Large Idiot:** even tho ur memeing skills r dank i'll still win
> 
>  **Stanley Uris:** There are no winners, only me losing, repeatedly. 
> 
> **Stanley Uris:** Noon, tomorrow?
> 
>  **Large Idiot:** c u there m(ahte) ;)
> 
>  **Tiny Idiot:** I hate you. I’ll be there, Stan.
> 
>  **Stanley Uris:** Cool, I hate both of you. See you there.
> 
> _**Stanley Uris** left the chat._

Bill hummed and kneaded his thumbs into the ball of Stan’s foot.

“Mr. Popular o-o-over there,” he said, grinning softly. Stan smiled back, and let himself sink, for a moment, into the freshness of all of this. He liked Bill. He loved Mike. Mike would be over after his shift, and the three of them would watch a movie or find a minimally-awkward position to make out in. 

And tomorrow, Stan would shove Eddie and Richie out of the nest and—with any luck at all—into each other. 

When he woke up the next morning, Stan found himself actually, well, kind of nervous. 

He was, in essence, breaking up with Richie and Eddie on Valentine’s Day. Which, he guessed _was_ kind of shitty, but they’d really brought it on themselves after the goddamn limousines and flash-mobs and overall tomfoolery. Plus, Stanley really, very sincerely doubted that either would mind very much once he realized the other was chomping at the bit to get with him. 

The day was unseasonably warm for it to have been snowing literally a week ago, but Stan wasn’t complaining as he set out towards the park in nothing but a sweater and jeans. It was nice to move without having three layers of pants on, and the crystal-clear sky ensured the full effect of Stan’s plan. 

By the time that he made it to their agreed-upon meet-up spot, it was nearly noon, and he’d fully expected chronically-anxious Eddie to already be there, but he hadn’t expected for him to be leaning back casually on a thick blanket beside does-not-own-an-adult-alarm-clock Richie. 

Richie’s head whipped up when Stan approached, and he was already grinning, and more, he was wearing a suit, a _nice_ one. Eddie couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off as Richie stood, immaculately presentable, and bowed deeply.

“A final offering for the fair maiden,” Richie said and waved his hand towards the blanket. 

There was a picnic basket resting by Eddie’s leg and an opened bottle of champagne. Eddie glanced between Stan and the bottle and frowned.

“Er, we sort of…started without you?” Eddie said, grimacing a bit. 

Stan snorted.

“It’s fine,” he said and sank down onto the blanket. Stan expected the wetness of the ground to immediately seep up into him, but it was a quality blanket. Warm from the sun. 

Now, all Stan had to do, was wait. 

Richie settled back down beside Eddie and, surprise, surprise, started talking. Stan wasn’t really listening to him, but rather, listening to the world around him, listening for his cue. 

Eddie seemed to be waiting, too, sitting beside Richie all tense and worried, and Stan could think of a number of reasons as to why he might be. The dirt around them. Stan’s “decision”. What would happen after said “decision”. 

Stan almost ended it with them right then, just to save Eddie the anticipation, but then, he remembered he had a _Plan_. He had to bide his time. 

Eddie didn’t seem too pleased with that. 

“What’s the call, Stan?” Eddie interrupted after a while, his voice loud and croaking out over Richie’s. Richie’s monologue died suddenly, and he fixed Stan with a hesitant gaze. 

“Honestly?” Stan asked, looking back and forth between them. They turned to glance at each other, then nodded solemnly back at Stan. He let out a breath. “Honestly, Jesus, fuck. You two have been driving me absolutely crazy trying to outdo each other, but I could not give a fuck less who wins. Very genuinely.”

On the very outer edge of Stan’s hearing, he caught the sound he’d been waiting for scooting closer. He urged the words out faster. 

“I'm putting an end to the whole thing because it’s humiliating and mortifying but mostly because you morons have been having a massive pissing contest just as an excuse to show each other your dicks!” Stan’s breath came out in huffs, and he glared at both of their stunned faces, waiting for it to _click_. The sound growled closer, so Stan pushed on. “In conclusion, I’m breaking up with both of you, and…” Stan leveled both of them with as dry a look as he could muster and pointed up. 

There, swooping and guttural above the din of New York City, was a sky-writing plane. It barreled and zagged and puttered out smoke painstaking letter by painstaking letter, until finally, it let all 1.6 million Manhattaners in on the secret that, until then, had only been witnessed and appreciated fully by Stanley Uris himself.

**YOU’RE BOTH IDIOTS.**

“My own grand gesture,” Stan said, after the plane had smacked the period on the end and buzzed off. Richie was staring up at the wobbly letters, slack-jawed, awed, and Stan wanted to frame the image. Eddie looked a little better, though maybe three times redder than Richie.

Then, Richie was wheeling around on Stan. 

“Fuck you, man! You totally stole my thunder!” Richie shouted. Stan felt his face fall to confusion, doubly so as Richie began fumbling around in his suit pocket. 

He reemerged a second later with a ring box in his hand. He offered it to Stanley.

Stan’s stomach fell clean out of him, horror ringing so loud in his ears that it drowned everything else out. 

“Put that away, Richie,” he warned. Every inch of him was frozen in terror, save for his eyes. His eyes tore frantically around them, scoping for peepers, for paps, for Eddie’s crest-fallen face, and there it was. Eddie was staring at the ring box, his mouth agape, looking as frozen and horrified as Stan felt, and Stan barreled on. “This _so_ crosses the line. This is not fucking funny, Richie. Put it away.” 

“Jesus, Stan, just open it, would you?” Richie insisted, pushing the box into Stan’s hand. 

“No,” Stan said, shoving it back. 

Fuck, this was not at _all_ how Stan had intended the day to go. He’d wanted to walk away with Eddie and Richie as _friends_ , not as two people he’d never be able to bear looking in the face again. He’d wanted Eddie and Richie to end up together! Not for Richie to…to fucking _propose!_

“Yes,” Richie said, urging it back towards Stan.

“No!”

Eddie seemed to shake loose of his shock all at once. His eyes were wet and narrowed, but he was moving.

“I’ll fucking do it, Christ,” Eddie snapped, yanking the box out of Stan’s hand and tearing it open. 

Eddie stared down at its innards uncomprehendingly, then, his eyes rose slowly back to Richie’s. 

“It’s empty?” Eddie said, his brows pinched together. 

Richie was looking back at Eddie, smiling a bit. 

“Yeah.” Richie tore his eyes away from Eddie for a moment to offer Stan a smile, too. “I’m setting you free, Stanny, baby.” 

The words hung thick as honey in the air before they slammed into Stanley.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Stan breathed. 

He picked up the champagne bottle and tipped it back. Stan would need, like, fifteen of these fuckers to account for the heart attack Richie just gave him. 

When Stan came up for air, Eddie was still clutching the empty ring box, staring at Richie. 

“But…why?” Eddie asked, frowning deeply. Richie shrugged. He took the box out of Eddie’s hand, set it gingerly to the side, and slid his palm into Eddie’s. Stan felt like a voyeur, watching the soft sweep of his thumb over Eddie’s wrist.

“Stan’s right. I was doing all _this_ —” Richie waved his free hand vaguely “—but I was just thinking about you. Like, nonstop. A ridiculous amount.” Richie huffed a laugh Stan knew immediately to be nervous to his core. Richie’s throat clicked as he swallowed. “So…what do you say, Eds?”

Silence rang out and rang out, and Richie’s smile wobbled. 

“You—” Eddie started finally, his frown deepening. A frustrated gurgle of sound fell from his throat, but before Stan could get good and nervous for Richie, Eddie was surging forward—fucking trooper—and sealing his mouth over Richie’s. 

Stan looked away, grinning. From the corner of his eye, he saw the pair sink down into the blanket and tried very hard not to think about the flurry of their frantic limbs. 

Stan slid his wallet out, tucked both of their credit cards down into the untouched picnic basket. 

“I’m leaving your credit cards,” he told them as he rose. Neither looked up, and the only sound of acknowledgement he received was the sloppy slide of tongue. “And I’m selling everything either of you ever bought me.” Stan smoothed down his sweater and stepped off the blanket. “And I expect dinner at least twice a month from both of you,” he called over his shoulder as he left them there. “And further, I expect an invite the next time that box comes around.” 

All he got back was an excited, “Mmph!” 

Stan walked through the grass, rolling his eyes fondly. 

“Idiots,” he said to no one but himself.

**Author's Note:**

> No one:  
> Literally not a single person:  
> Stan in this fic: *rolls his eyes* 
> 
> To my giftee, [Satanders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satanders/pseuds/Satanders), I hope you liked it, even if it wasn't exactly what you asked for! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
